Hi guys. This is the beating scene. Hope everyone likes it.

Pain

Melchior Gabor was leaning against an oak tree, writing in his journal, reading it aloud as he did so. "27 November. The trouble is: the terrible prerogative…the Parentocracy in Secondary Education…a world where teachers-like parents-view us as merely so much raw material for an obedient and productive society…a unified, military-like body, where all that is weak must be hammered away…Where the progress of the students reflects back only on the rank and order of the faculty, and therefore a single low mark can be seen as a threat to-"

"Melchior?" Wendla said, approaching him.

"You?!" Melchior said, jumping up to his feet as well as out of his skin.

Wendla shrugged and said, "I was lying by the stream, and then…I saw you here…"

Melchior didn't see where she was going. "Yes…" They both stared at each other then, not sure what to say.

"So…" Wendla spoke, breaking the silence finally.

"So…the stream. Dreaming again?…" Melchior said, trying to find a subject.

"I was, I guess." Wendla said calmly.

"And, what were you dreaming of?" Melchior asked, glad to have succeeded in his mission.

"It's silly." Wendla said quickly, turning away from him.

But Melchior wasn't giving up that easily. "Tell me."

"I dreamed I was a clumsy little girl, who spilt my father's coffee. And when he saw what I had done, he yanked out his belt and whipped me." Wendla said, still rather calm.

"Wendla, that kind of thing doesn't happen anymore. Only in stories." Melchior said reassuringly.

"Martha Bessell is beaten almost every morning-the next day, you can see the welts. It's terrible." Wendla said, turning to Melchior with tears in her eyes. "Really, it makes you boiling hot to hear her tell it. Lately, I can't think about anything else."

"Someone should file a complaint." Melchior said immediately. The police ought to be able to do something in this kind of situation, right?

"You know…I've never been beaten. Not once. I can't even imagine it. It must be just awful." Wendla said after a moment.

"I don't believe anyone is ever better for it." Melchior said.

She didn't seem to hear him though. "I've tried beating myself-to find out how it feels, really, inside." Wendla said as she picks up a switch. "With this switch, for example? It's tough. And thin." She offers him the switch. He takes it and swishes it through the air.

"It'd draw blood."

"You mean, if you beat me with it…?" Wendla said almost encouragingly.

"Beat you?" Melchior asked in shock.

"Me." Wendla said reassuringly.

"Wendla, what are you thinking?!" Melchior said, not believing what he was hearing.

"Nothing." Wendla said simply.

"I could never beat you." Melchior said, trying to hand back the switch. Wendla wouldn't take it.

"But if I let you?" Wendla asked.

"Never." Melchior said, still trying to push the switch into her hand.

"But if I asked you to?" She questioned, pushing it back.

"Have you lost your mind?" Melchior asked, wondering if he was losing his as well. He though he fell asleep on the oak tree and that this was just a dream. He closed his eyes and pinched himself only to find that when his eyes opened again, they were in the same place.

"Martha Bessell, she told me-" Wendla started.

"Wendla! You can't envy someone being beaten." Melchior shouted at her, cutting her off.

"But I've never been beaten-my entire life. I've never…felt…" Wendla said, looking down.

"What?" Melchior asked, needing to know what possessed this girl.

"Anything." Wendla said, looking up with new tears in her eyes. "Please, Melchior…" She said as she bent over, giving Melchior a great view of her backside. Every part of him knew this was wrong, but he knew that if something like this really mattered this much to her, she wouldn't give up until she had found a way for it to happen to her. So with much regret, he struck her lightly with the switch.

"I don't feel it." Wendla said, looking back curiously.

"Maybe not, with your dress on." Melchior said, hoping that this awkward scene would end.

"On my legs, then." Wendla said, lifting up her dress to show her legs and the whilt undergarments covering her bottom.

"Wendla!" Melchior said half in shock of Wendla's persistence and half in shock of the picture in front of him. How many times had he dreamed of having this opportunity? Far to many.

"Come on. Please." Wendla said, glancing back at him. Melchior knew that the only thing he could do was to give her what she wanted.

"I'll teach you to say 'Please'…" He said as he hit her once again.

"You're barely stroking me." Wendla said. It sounded a little muffled but Melchior shrugged it off as he struck her again.

"How's that then?" Melchior said, becoming tantalized by the sight in front of him and how she just kept asking for more.

"Martha's father, he uses his belt. He draws blood Melchi." Wendla said, moving her backside a little closer to Melchior. He struck her again.

"How's that?"

"Nothing." He struck her again.

"And that?"

"Nothing." Wendla said again. Melchior couldn't take it anymore. His mind was telling him one thing and his body was telling him another. He became angry that he couldn't decide what he truly wanted and saw the object of his confusion.

"You bitch. I'll beat the hell out of you." Melchior said as he pushed her to the ground. It was only then that he saw her face, her eyes, her tears. He had no idea what to do. So he ran. He ran from her. He ran from the world. He ran from his very existence. It was only in the darkness of the woods that he stopped at felt the hot drops of liquid that where trickling down his face.

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Well, that was an interesting chapter to write. Hope it was the same to read. Next is the hayloft scene!